


To Drive the Cold Winter Away

by DonnesCafe



Series: Christmas Visitations with Wedding Interludes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, F/M, Family, Holidays, Let them be happy for god's sake, Love, M/M, Schmoof and bits of fluff, and let there be tea, post-HLV, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring here, so I'm writing Christmas fic. I’m still sad about the ending of HLV and wanted to look into the future and imagine them having come through the storms. Of course things can’t be that easy at first, but I’m taking my cue from Shakespeare.<br/><i>And the country proverb known/That every man should take his own/In your waking shall be shown./Jack shall have Jill, Naught shall go ill:/The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.</i><br/>~~ William Shakespeare, <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream,</i> act 3, sc. 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Drive the Cold Winter Away

_Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,_  
 _That dost not bite so nigh_  
 _As benefits forgot:_  
 _Though thou the waters warp,_  
 _Thy sting is not so sharp_  
 _As friend remembered not._  


~~William Shakespeare, “Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind” from _As You Like It,_ c 1600  


~~~~~  


"I come bearing a Christmas invitation." Mycroft stood in the doorway to the lounge at 221B. He hadn't knocked. He never knocked. 

Sherlock looked up from his computer. “We don’t do that." He thought about last year. "Why would we do that again, Mycroft?” 

“Mummy and Daddy aren’t getting any younger. Neither are we. Besides, we need to start a tradition to take the curse off Christmas after last year.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows eloquently and leaned on his umbrella. “Drugs. Theft. Murder.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, come in, for God’s sake. Sit down.” He stood and gestured to John’s abandoned chair. “Tea?” 

“Please,” said Mycroft, settling in. “Can you, in fact, make tea?” 

“I have hidden depths.” Sherlock abruptly turned before he lost his temper and said something he’d regret. Once in the kitchen, he picked up two battered mugs and started the kettle. Suddenly, his mouth quirked into a half smile, and he put the two mugs back onto the cluttered table. Instead, he reached into a cabinet, up on a high shelf, for the Crown Staffordshire Old Derby cups. He would amuse himself by showing Mycroft that he knew how to do tea properly. Then he belatedly wondered why he hadn’t wanted to lose his temper with his brother. He rarely tried to avoid hurting Mycroft and even more rarely regretted anything he said to him. 

He remembered last Christmas. “Your loss would break my heart.” They had come so near to so many losses over the last year or so. His friendships with John and Mary had been irrevocably changed. Stronger in some ways, but changed. He had managed to avoid death twice, but not by much. Moriarty had not returned from the dead, but the little adventure of his pseudo-return had almost cost Mycroft and Lestrade their lives as well as his own. He was tired of being mostly alone. He was tired of walls and cleverness. 

He brought in a large tray. Silver, old china. Sugar lumps and fresh milk. Scones. He thanked the goddess of Fortune (actually Mrs. Hudson, who had been to Tesco yesterday and baked this morning). 

“Good heavens, Sherlock. What’s the occasion?” 

“A prelude to a Merry Christmas?” said Sherlock, only the slightest trace of irony in his voice. “I’ll be mother.” He poured milk into the cups, then tea. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Added two sugar lumps to his cup. Stirred thoughtfully. “Is the tea drugged? Another Christmas plot?” 

“Truce?” asked Sherlock. His brother gave him a look that was both quizzical and sharp. A pause. Sherlock said, very softly, “Mycroft, your loss would have broken my heart.” 

Mycroft stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully. “Just what am I supposed to say to that?” Small smiles on both sides. There. Enough sentiment. 

“Not a thing, brother mine. So, Christmas in the country again?” 

“No. I thought we’d do it at my house.” 

“Oh god in heaven, the pile in Belgravia,” said Sherlock, thinking it was time to return to their normal tone lest England fall. “Conveniently near the Palace. Will any royals be attending?” 

“I fear not,” said Mycroft. “Just a family party.” 

“Fifty rooms, littered with antiques and old masters and suits of armor. For a family party? Overkill, don’t you think?” 

“It’s only twenty-three rooms, Sherlock, and only the Caravaggio could legitimately be considered...." 

Sherlock laughed. 

"Well, in any case," Mycroft continued mildly, "...the fireplace in the drawing room will hold a yule log. And I'd be grateful if you could bring your violin. There should be carols, don't you think?” 

There were none of Mycroft’s subtle “I’m kidding” tells in his expression or body language. A yule log. Carols? No doubt there would be plum pudding. Port. A tree. Trees. Mycroft was a traditionalist, and if he decided to do Christmas.... Christ on a crutch. There would be goose. Would there be mummers? Had his brother been kidnapped, reprogrammed by an obscure cult, and returned? 

“....and I thought we’d include John and Mary. Mummy wants to see the baby, of course. They are family, after all, are they not? As are DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. And Ms. Hooper, of course. I’ve already checked with them. They all said they would be delighted." 

Well of course they all did, thought Sherlock. Then the thought that Mycroft thought of them as family became somewhat tangled in his brain. 

“Bring a date, Sherlock. And wear something decent. I am planning quite an elegant party. I...," he hesitated. "I plan to make an announcement.” 

Date? Announcement? What was Mycroft up to? But instead of subjecting his brother to interrogation or objections, he consciously decided not to do either. Maybe…. Maybe change was good. He took a deep breath and lifted the teapot. “More tea, Mycroft?” 

“It’s delicious. Thank you, brother dear.” Mycroft smiled and sipped. 

Bloody hell, thought Sherlock. What was he letting himself in for?

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by one of my favorite fics. It makes me laugh out loud every time I read it. “So Here’s a Hand My Trusted Friend,” by hyacinth_sky747 is surreal and depraved and delightful, all in the best possible ways and is found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1112915)  
> Mine is very different in tone and pairings, but just wanted to acknowledge my delight and inspiration.
> 
> Title for this part comes from John Playford's song “Drive the Cold Winter Away” (1651).


End file.
